Remember your towel
by KS Claw
Summary: For once, John Watson's psychologist actually comes up with a good suggestion. It's time to move on, and John Watson, or rather, Arthur Dent, decides to do it in his own way.


The days after what some called 'The fall of the Reichenbach Hero' were... hard. There were days where John Watson thought he was going crazy, and thought that he caught a glimpse of Sherlock watching him from afar. But after the third time where he had startled a young woman who had been just the right height and with just the right coat and curly hair, John had had enough.

His therapist suggested that he should go on a holiday of some kind, take some time and just take a break, and most of all, meet some new people. And perhaps reconnect with any old friends he hadn't talked to in a while.

It was those final words that did it. Somehow, it just made everything fall into place, and John found himself smiling before giving his therapist a firm handshake.

"I think I will do just that, thank you." He said.

As he headed off home, the idea began to appeal to him more and more. Now if only he could remember that number, and hopefully the one he intended to call was still around...

When he thought about it, he supposed it was what you got when you got bored enough to want to hang out in a place like this. How often did you come across a galaxy that was almost an exact copy of your own? Then again, what was it that good old guide said? Oh well. "Forty-two!" John found himself crowing, which of course made people stop and give him odd looks. Not that he cared, not now that he had a purpose again.

Oh but he had missed this, this feeling of chaos looming over his head and threatening to unravel the reality as he knew it. He had forgotten just how bloody frustrating and exciting it could be, though he had felt most of it when in company of Sherlock. But now was not the time to dwell on the past.

When he got home (hah, what is 'home?') he got out his wallet and pulled out an old, folded note with a number that had been refreshed a few times with a black or blue pen depending on what had been in hand at the time. He tapped it in, and waited.

The phone rang four times. Halfway through the fifth, it was picked up by a sleepy sounding voice.

"Hello?"

"Hullo Ford."

There was a pause. "Arthur? I thought you'd settled in!"

"So did I."

"You said you would never call me unless something absolutely dreadful has happened."

"It has." John said a bit gravely. "I became a doctor, and I was in a war. I even had war trauma of a kind, which I had to be in therapy for!"

"Oh Arthur..."

"But it's okay," John interrupted, "'cause someone pointed out that this therapist was wrong, and I was *missing* all the action, not scared of getting back into it." He felt oddly giddy, he didn't know if it was from anticipation or something else. "So anyway, what do you think?"

"If you're talking about if I think we should be traveling together, then I say 'why the hell not?'" Came the response. "You still got your guide?"

"I do. You still got your fish?"

"As fresh as you can imagine. Where shall we meet?"

"There's this place I know in Dartmoor..."

Three days later, John Watson, or to his closest friends Arthur Dent, could be seen striding across the moors. Or would have, if it hadn't been so bloody dark. He soon arrived in the place he remembered, which last time had been filled with cars with 'night time watchers' who had been on the lookout for the infamous Baskerville Hound. Granted, they had been involved in other activities, which Arthur hoped could be erased from his mind by a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.

For a moment, he could have sworn that he felt someone was watching him, but then he remembered the words of old Slartibartfast and ignored the feeling... right until a hand landed on his shoulder. He started and swung around, his flashlight lighting up the face of one Ford Prefect, who gave him a brilliant grin.

"'Lo Arthur, bloody great to see you again!"

"You too, Ford." Arthur Dent said honestly. "So, you ready?"

"I should be asking you the same. Towel?"

"Got everything I need." Arthur lifted up his shirt, revealing a massive towel tied around his waist, and then tapped the backpack he was carrying.

Ford nodded, then brought out a small device he handed to the other man. "I kept your matter transference beam safe for you. Just like I promised."

Arthur Dent now formerly John Watson just smiled. "Thanks mate. Shall we?"

"Let's go! I think there's a cargo ship heading for Ventrillia 747 passing over us."

"What's on Ventrillia 747?" Arthur asked, as he stuck up his thumb, with the matter transference beam lighting up in the night.

"Bloody hell if I know." Ford said, as he reached up his own hand; "but that's the fun part of hitchhiking, as you well know!"

And then they were off.


End file.
